


Crowned Heads

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 18:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5426534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach, with Fingolfin dead, Fingon must be crowned and take up his father's kingship. As he looks back to the day of his father's coronation at Lake Mithrim all those years ago, Fingon remembers the ones who are not by his side anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crowned Heads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elisif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisif/gifts).



Fingon paced before the long mirror, dismissing his aides with a wave of his hand. He tugged at his collar, already frustrated with these ludicrously cumbersome formal robes. _Even across the sea_ , he thought ruefully,  _even in an embattled fortress in the middle of a war, the ceremony and trappings of the court of Tirion are a hard habit to break_. 

It was no new revelation, of course; the life of his father’s court had been most of his world these last centuries, though he had always, for his part, felt more comfortable when riding out into the mountains with the patrols, stopping at the hill-forts that lined the Ered Wethrin, dressed in hunting leathers, or riding off to across the rolling heather hills of his own realm of Dor-lómin, free under the wide sky, and yet ready to defend his land and people with sword and bow and his very life if it came to it. 

Yet he knew as well as any that the Noldor, even in exile, had always attached much significance to doing such things properly. That was how his people always were and always would be, Fingon thought, and he must go along with it. He plucked at the embroidered front-piece - almost a jewelled breastplate in its heaviness and stiffness - that lay across his chest, over his thick, dark blue robes, a combination of mourning clothes and those of joyous ceremony that had been commissioned especially for the occasion. 

The coronation of a king was such a rare event that lack of much precedent meant that he was spared a little of the excessive pomp and circumstance.  _That and the moment in which it took place._  The grieving of their people for their beloved king Fingolfin, the shock at the manner of his death. The blockaded roads after the battle, effectively trapping them at Eithel Sirion. At least when his father had been crowned, Fingon thought with some bitterness, there had been hope. Then the Noldor had been newly reunited, the hearts of their people filled with forgiveness, intent on the future and the promise these new lands held. Last time, Fingon’s own deeds had been part of the reason for that, and of that he was glad. 

_But what had they now? Fear of death from the North, of the leaguer broken, siege and hunger and no assurance of security._

Fingon gazed out of the window at the winter sky, the haze of lingering smoke that still hung over the lands after the burning of Ard-galen combining with the frozen fog of dead winter to make a pall that sat over everything, turning all to grey. 

“My king” said a voice, making him start. “It is almost time.”

Fingon tried to rearrange his face into some semblance of royal dignity, then gave up, with a rueful twist of a smile. “I’m not technically king yet” he said, tugging a little at one of his braids, thickly woven with ribbons, jewels, glimmering beads and sigils, rich with symbolic meaning. They were heavier than his usual braids, which he had worn since childhood and loved mainly because of the bright sparkle of gold as he turned his head, but would have abandoned quickly enough if they had become a burden to him. 

His father had worn his hair like that, Fingon suddenly remembered, that day he was crowned by Lake Mithrim. So many years ago, now, or so it seemed, yet all at once the memories were coming back to him as though it had been mere days past, rather than centuries. 

 

* * *

_Despite the typically damp, chilly Mithrim weather, it had been a long, exhausting and - Fingon thought he could say - rather diplomatically successful day. The coronation had proceeded with all the solemnity worthy of  a great king, and Nolofinwë had taken the oaths of service and friendship offered to him with perfectly regal grace, as though he had been born for it. His father would be a good king, Fingon knew. The air had been thick with tension throughout, of course, the remaining hard-line loyalists of Fëanor a silent presence within the onlooking crowd that filled the great canopied parade ground. But silent they had remained, thankfully; he supposed that they had Maedhros to answer to if there was any trouble made._

_It had been a long, exhausting day of celebrations and keeping up a regal face and bearing, and Fingon felt somewhat drained of energy by the time he finally managed to seek out Maedhros, to catch him alone. They stood a little apart from the festivities, which, far from the solemnity and dignity of the morning’s ceremony - had descended largely into cheerful drunken revelry._

_But that was there, and they were here, beneath the shadow-wreathed eves of one of the outbuildings._

_The rain - more of a fine mist, really - was lifted by the cold breeze to chill their faces, stealing the warmth from exposed skin now that they were out of the homely glow of the lamps and the firepit, the great braziers that encircled the musicians’ box and the area set aside for feasting and dancing with light and golden heat._

_It was a great king, the Sindarin councillors had all assured Fingolfin, that could light the shore of Mithrim in the dark chill of the turn of the year, and a bountiful and generous one that would let the light and warmth of his winter fuel spill out across the lake, untrammelled by the walls of a feasting hall. It would bring a blessing upon his house, they told him, and despite Turgon’s protests of scarcity of supplies, prudence, and the need to provide for their people, Fingolfin had nodded and said, “let it be so”. Fingon thought back on the memory and his father’s gracious smile. What Turgon did not understand was that, Fingon suspected, Fingolfin’s decision had more to do embracing local customs and placating his new Sindarin allies than bringing blessings upon their house._

_Though some blessings would perhaps not go amiss, Fingon thought as he looked sideways at Maedhros’ face picked out in the half-light, feeling his heart twist with love as it always did when he looked at his cousin caught in such a moment, his mind elsewhere, lost in his own thoughts. Maedhros’ scars always seemed deepest in indirect illumination, a study in light and shade, skin warped and ridged, his jagged profile nonetheless defiant. Maedhros’ cropped-short hair had collected drops of mist, now glimmering like minute jewels in counterpoint to his bright copper circlet. It was a treasured heirloom of Maedhros’ mother’s house, yet also graven with the ubiquitous eight-pointed stars. It had been made for him, presented long years ago when Maedhros first began to formally serve at Finwë’s court in Tirion, and it still fit him perfectly._

_Maedhros, too, would have made a wonderful king, Fingon reflected, tugging at the edge of his own circlet where it had begun to slip loose from his intricately braided hair. But they had been through this; Maedhros was entirely set upon his course, single-minded in his determination to yield his crown to Fingolfin. The other path was closed and lost, and he suspected that was for the better._

_Though Fingon was more than willing to endure the cold to snatch a moment alone with Maedhros, he felt himself shiver as the chill stole into his bones, the mist dampening his own hair now, his festival braids hanging heavy with it. The cold crept into his fingers too; Fingon was well able to endure the cold, but still he had a special dislike for it._

_Maedhros seemed to know this; after a moment, without looking away from the golden glow before them, he silently slipped his hand into Fingon’s between them, a slight smile appearing on his face._

_Fingon turned to him, taking Maedhros’ hand in both of his own, clasping it between them. He raised them to his mouth and blew warmth onto their entangled fingers, rubbing their hands together, then kissed Maedhros’ knuckles. Then he lifted the stump of Maedhros’ right wrist, clasping it too between his palms. “Does it hurt today?” he asked quietly, feeling Maedhros wince slightly._

_“Not so much now” said Maedhros, the lines about his eyes deepening a little, for just a moment. “Do not worry about me, Fin. Not now, not tonight.” Before Fingon could protest, Maedhros’ face was crinkling into a true smile, playing about his lips. “But come, what is the crown prince doing away from his father’s side on this auspicious day? Don’t tell me you’ve grown tired of dancing already?”_

_“If you can believe it. Father’s guests and allies are all very well, but there’s only one person here tonight I want to dance with, really.” He gave Maedhros’ hand a squeeze._

_Maedhros sighed. “I know. But you know it wouldn’t be - ”_

_“Not seemly, it wouldn’t be in our political interests to show our closeness, can’t spin you around and dip you backwards for a kiss on the dancefloor, decorum at all times, yes, yes, I know. My father gave me that talk already today, not that I needed it.“_

_“Did he?” Maedhros seemed interested, though sadness was in his eyes too, Fingon thought. He sighed. “What did he say to you?”_

_“Oh, the usual. Started with you, saying that it would do you no favours with your own people to be seen as wholly in submission to the house of Fingolfin. I nearly made a highly inappropriate joke on that note - ”_

_“Finno!”_

_“But I held my tongue for once, you’ll be glad to hear. Then he went on to discuss our own relations with the house of Fëanáro, and about his ambitions for friendship with the people of the Havens, and how the two could play havoc with one another - ”_

_“Your father doesn’t want to cause his interests to come into conflict. Very sensible.”_

_“My father doesn’t want his kinslaying son and heir to be known to take a kinslaying cousin to bed while Círdan and the Telerin delegates are also dining at his board, you mean.”_

_“Something along those lines, yes.” Maedhros sighed, his face falling. “He’s right, I suppose.”_

_“I know.” said Fingon, glumly. “My father’s position as king is still precarious, that’s what you would say, isn’t it? Your people already mutter about my influence on you, especially those that were most loyal to your father. Letting what is between us out into the public eye really would do neither of us any service. Still, I had once hoped that in these new lands…”_

_“They are more accepting of such… arrangements as ours here, yes.” Maedhros put his hand around Fingon’s shoulder, drawing him close so Fingon’s face was at his throat. “But even in Tirion, it would not have been so much, if we had not been who we are, the eldest sons of our fathers. Such things are not as uncommon as you might think, but our position made it all but impossible, and if anything our situation has only grow more charged with politics.”_

_“Blasted politics. Damn it to the Void.” Fingon grinned, closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes. “Still, it doesn’t change anything for us, or it doesn’t have to. We were always playing a dangerous game, that we knew, but if we have become skilled at anything is it not discretion and subtlety?”_

_Maedhros’ face twisted into a wry smile and he laughed quietly. “I confess that subtlety was never a word I thought I’d found myself applying to you, my Fin. But yes, I suppose we have.”_

_“I should say so…” he lifted a hand, brushing Maedhros’ cheek very gently, longingly. “Still, a prince can dream…”_

_Several expressions warred upon Maedhros’ face for a moment, before he smiled, took a quick glance about to make sure no one else was around to see them, then edged them both into the full dark behind the outhouse. He placed his own hand over Fingon’s, leaning down, clumsy in the dark, to kiss his lips very gently._

_“Fin…” Maedhros’ face, or what little Fingon could see of it in the shadows when they drew apart, was slightly aggrieved. “Don’t misunderstand me - ”_

_“I don’t, my Maitimo. I understand you perfectly.”_

_Maedhros’ response was lost before it left his lips, as their faces drew closer together still, mouths meeting once more in a light, brushing kiss. Fingon could barely see in the deep shade behind the outhouse, but that served only to heighten his other senses, the meeting of velvet soft skin, the quiet breathy sounds Maedhros made as Fingon kissed him, the smell and taste of him. It was not the same as it had been in Tirion, for Maedhros was not the same person and neither was he. This was still so new, raw and a little strange, yet also deeply familiar somehow. He pulled Maedhros closer, letting their tongues brush just a little, then a little more, warmth spreading through him as he wound his arms about Maedhros’ neck, pulling their bodies closer, as close as they could with their heavy, cumbersome festival robes._

_When they broke apart Maedhros’ eyes were half lidded, his mouth still open a little. Fingon thought that though he could barely see, in that moment it was still the most beautiful sight he could think of. Maedhros’ face grew animated, though, and he began to speak again. “I don’t regret it, you know. Passing the crown to your father, making you what I should have been all along, what I can never be any longer. I will never regret that, at least.”_

_Fingon half-snorted. “Tell that to your own people on those cold nights in the east.”_

_“Though not all my people can see it yet, I know in my bones that it is better this way. Better for all of us.”_

_Fingon smiled crookedly. “Well, you certainly haven’t changed. Any chance for a disgustingly honourable sacrifice on your own part…”_

_Maedhros made a face. “You’re certainly one to talk, oh heroic and valiant Findekáno, who risks his own neck for the saving of a traitor’s sorry hide.”_

_Fingon frowned, drawing back from Maedhros’ lips, troubled. “Don’t call yourself a traitor.”_

_“Not this again. Fine, I won’t, if it displeases you. But the rest is certainly true.”_

_“I didn’t just do it for you. I did it for our people…” he felt his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Maitimo, I was so tired of seeing the divide between our two camps. You don’t understand what it was like. There was no hope for any of us, not like that, and there you were, in the grip of the Enemy… I had it in my power to fix it, even if there was a chance that it would cost my life. And Eru help me, I took that chance, and it worked. I would have happily died trying, yet here I am.” He raised his hand to Maedhros’ face again, “Isn’t that enough for you?”_

_“For the politician and lord and rhetorician in me, yes, certainly. For, well… whatever else there is in me, no, not really. It will never stop me from fearing for you.”_

_Fingon rolled his eyes. “Well, when we live apart I will send you daily letters detailing how I’m still alive despite all the desperate acts of heroism I’ve been flinging myself into. Does that please you?”_

_Maedhros frowned, then smiled, the last vestiges of their argument dissipating, though not quite gone. “I suppose that’s enough to be getting on with.”_

_They held each other a little longer, letting themselves slip into soft kisses every now and then. “I don’t want you to go” said Fingon at last._

_“I know. But we should go back to the last of the dancing, I suppose. I must make sure my brothers aren’t getting themselves into any trouble.”_

_“I didn’t mean that and you know it” said Fingon, quietly. “Maitimo, you don’t have to leave, you don’t have to go east. Father would give you a place at court if you asked - ”_

_Maedhros’ shoulders slumped a little. “I know. But I still have to go.”_

_Fingon gave an exasperated sigh. “And you lecture me about heroic sacrifice. Maitimo, I saw the lines you marked on that map. Don’t think I didn’t realise you’d chosen the most dangerous, exposed hill as your stronghold.”_

_“Someone needs to hold Himring.”_

_“You have a terrible case of interpreting the word “someone” as you yourself.”_

_“Again, you’re one to talk. But strategically speaking - ”_

_“Maitimo” Fingon interrupted._

_“Yes?”_

_Fingon took Maedhros’ face between his hands. “I just want to be sure that you’re doing this for the right reasons.”_

_Maedhros sighed, dropping his eyes. “I’m doing this for our people. For my brothers. For our war.”_

_“For your father, you mean.”_

_“Yes, for him too. And for you, Fin.”_

_Fingon frowned. “That was what I was afraid of.”_

_“Don’t be.” Maedhros was smiling now, a true, open smile, the first such in a long time. He cast his gaze back up, looking directly into Fingon’s eyes. “Fin, we trust each other, do we not?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Then we must let each other go, at least until the Oath is fulfilled.” A shadow crossed his face, for just a moment. “Trust me to remain safe, and I will believe the same of you. Because as long as you are in the world, my poor selfish heart will not allow me to throw myself into undue danger. You have my word.”_

_“I shall not make you swear.”_

_Maedhros nodded, with a rueful smile, his forehead resting on Fingon’s. “It is not so far between Eithel Sirion and Himring. We may visit each other, as our duties allow. We can write, once your father’s kingsroads are completed and Moryo’s proposed system of messengers and staging posts is in place. It will not be such a cruel parting, really.”_

_Fingon was about to say that any such parting would be cruel, but at once a voice came from behind Maedhros, startling them both so that they sprang apart like guilty youths once more._

_“There you two are. I suspected as much.”_

_Fingon wheeled in a circle, gazing about him, mouth already open to blurt out an excuse that he was still trying to think of. But after a moment he relaxed as the sight of his aunt’s familiar features, picked out in shadow and the brilliant blue-white glow of the lampstone she was holding._

_“Aunt Lalwendë” said Maedhros, dropping his head in half a bow. Fingon could imagine Maedhros turning endearingly pink beneath his freckles. “I’m sorry, I know we should be…” he gestured to the dance floor and the general congregation of milling guests and nobles._

_“Well” said Lalwen, with half an exasperated smile as she looked between Maedhros and Fingon, “my instructions from my brother were indeed to find his missing firstborn son and heir, as well as his nephew, and bring you both back, for both Lord Amelion and Lady Gilithel had remarked on your absence. He also expressed his suspicions that I may find you together…”_

_“Aunt…”_

_“I dawdled on the way” she said, her eyes glittering. “You deserve a moment, the two of you, if anyone does. You have both played your parts wonderfully.”_

_Fingon smiled in relief, giving Lalwen an impulsive hug. “Thank you, Lalwendë. I’m sorry if we were missed.” He sighed, and stood up straight, adjusting his circlet half-heartedly and rather ineffectually. “I suppose we should put my father at his ease now.” He shivered, and took Maedhros’ hand, giving it a brief final squeeze._

_Back beneath the canopy, the dancers were showing no signs of a decrease in enthusiasm, despite the lateness of the hour. The musicians were playing a lively jig. Fingon craned to see if he could spot Maglor amongst them; though he had been a prince and a king, Maglor delighted in joining the common musicians for such events, and often said that it endeared him to their people more than anything else he’d ever done._

_Maglor, however, was nowhere to be seen now. Fingon was just about to remark on this, when another voice burst out from behind him._

_“Lalwendë! There you are at last, we’ve all been looking.” Fingon turned to see his sister coming towards them. Aredhel smiled brightly at Maedhros and greeted Fingon with a sidelong grin and a tug to his braid. “Oh, hello Finno, nice of you to join us again. Your hair’s coming loose, did you know?” Before he could protest, Aredhel was turning back to Lalwen and began talking animatedly once more.  
_

_“Aunt, you must come rescue Elenniel, she’s making a brave effort with those Sindarin lordlings, but they seem to have had some sort of extended petty trade dispute with her father several hundred years ago. Even though he’s been dead since before the rising of the Sun, they’ve decided to seize this opportunity to take it up with his daughter, and they won’t let anything stand in the way of them airing their grievances.”_

_“Mercy, but Elenniel was telling me of that!” said Lalwen, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “She was a mere child when it happened too.”  
_

_“Indeed” said Aredhel, beginning to steer them off towards the far corner. “Finno, you and Nelyo had better find Father, he was asking after you. I simply must see to Macalaurë, who is lying down by the drinks table after the… incident.”  
_

_“Of course” said Maedhros, shaking his head in embarrassed disbelief. “Irissë, do you know where - ”  
_

_But Aredhel was already gone, hurrying Lalwen away._

_“There he is” said Fingon, standing on the tips of his toes to point over the stepped dias, to the other side of the space. Fingolfin was surrounded by several dignitaries, both Noldorin and Mithrim Sindarin, engaged in conversation. Fingolfin looked a little harried, but regal and proud still, smiling and gesturing animatedly as he spoke, holding their attention as though he were born for it.  
_

_For a moment Fingon let himself watch the scene before him, Maedhros at his side. It seemed that - aside from whatever accident poor Maglor had gotten himself into - the day had gone mostly without a hitch, and he said as much to Maedhros, smiling and letting their little fingers brush between them, inconspicuously._

_“Yes” agreed Maedhros, nodding. “Yes, all things considered, it could have been a lot worse.”  
_

 

* * *

 

“Findekáno.”

A quiet voice startled him out of his reverie.

“Aunt Lalwendë.”

He had thought she might chivvy him along as she had sometimes done when he was younger, but instead she came to stand at his side in silence, gazing too out of the tall, narrow tower window. They stood side by side in thought for a long moment, before she gently took hold of his shoulder, turning him to face her. As their gazes met, Fingon saw her stern, proud eyes glimmering with tears. 

“Aunt…” he suddenly felt like crying himself, seeing her like that, but he blinked back the tears, drawing himself up a little taller, for he thought that if he wept now he might never stop. Instead he pulled Lalwen into a brief hug, taking as much comfort as he gave. For a moment, she let herself be held, before pushing him away with a muffled sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. 

“Finno, don’t” she said, her voice a little raw at the edges. “You’ll muss your robes, and your hair.”

“Of course, I am sorry.”

He let her twitch his braids back into place, fiddle with the way his robes hung about his shoulders, though in truth they were barely disturbed at all. When she was done, she stood back, looking him up and down with a critical eye. 

“How do I look?” asked Fingon, mustering a smile as best he could. 

She was silent for a long moment. “Like your father” she said, her voice catching. She took a breath. “Like a king.”

“I’m not king yet, but I suppose I should get a move on to that effect” said Fingon. “The people are waiting.” He smiled, offering Lalwen his arm. “Shall we?”

There was silence in the great hall for just a moment as the doors opened slowly in front Fingon, before the heralds began their fanfare, filling the high, elegantly vaulted ceiling with ringing sound. Lalwen slipped from his side to take a back passage to her place on the dias at the other end of the hall, and suddenly Fingon was left feeling rather alone before the open doors, despite the throngs of his people’s faces gazing at him expectantly, some letting out nervous gasps, cheers and applause. 

Down the centre there was a cleared path, marked by a broad carpet of regal blue, white and silver, the colours of his house. It divided the hall in two, leading to the high plinth and throne that had been placed at the opposite end of the room, above the dias where the lords and ladies, the guests of honour, were seated. 

From the buttresses hung the bright banners of the house of Fingolfin and the house of Finwë, flanked by the smaller standards of the great houses of the Noldor and Sindar who were sworn in service to them. There were also plain dark blue and black banners, for mourning; the lingering smoke of the Dagor Bragollach, though kept at bay by the high, elegant stained glass windows, was not far from anyone’s memory today, Fingon knew. 

Many, indeed, were dressed more sombrely than they otherwise would have been. Though perhaps this had as much to do with lack of resources for extravagant commissions as with grief for their fallen king, Fingon thought grimly. Barad Eithel was effectively besieged, for though truly there was no surrounding leaguer that the scouts had been able to locate, the courageous messengers and traders who had attempted to travel further afield had never returned, the roads that they had once used blocked and barred by wreckage, the way points easy targets for marauding bands of orcs. There had been slaughter after slaughter, before Fingon had ordered the gates of the fortress closed until times were better. 

Still, though supplies grew scarce, all agreed that it was good for the people to have a celebration, if not a particularly extravagant one. And so Fingon found himself amongst his father’s - no, now  _his_  - subjects, his eyes fixed to the front as he stepped onto the carpeted path, for that short walk that would make him a king in truth. 

As he walked the path amongst the ranks of people - letting his coronation robes flow behind him, an elegant train born up quickly by pages - he let himself look at their faces in his peripheral vision.  _So few_ , he thought with a pang. Large though the great hall was, never before would they have been able to fit nearly the whole civilian population and many of the guards in their full armour into this space. 

 _Too few. Too many dead, or fled, or trapped far away_. The network of hill forts that lined the Ered Wethrin had been all but cut off from one another, and the count of the dead was still under way, growing daily as news came in haphazardly. 

 _Yet still, kings must be crowned_. Fingon reached the steps up to the dias, climbing them slowly, eyes up, shoulders back, as the pages fell back into the assembled crowd. About him were assembled Fingolfin’s council, the heads of the great houses, the guard captains of the east and west gates. There was Lalwen amongst them, and his aunt’s mere presence gave Fingon strength. 

There were also many faces missing, though. Turgon was absent, of course, and that stung Fingon’s heart and made helpless anger boil up within him, all at once. Aredhel was dead, Thorondor had told Fingon even as he had spoken of Turgon, and of how Fingolfin’s cairn rose now in the mountains. Turgon, the eagle had told him, had raised their father’s memorial close to her tomb, high up in the bright mountain airs. That was all Thorondor could say though, despite Fingon’s frustrations. Argon too was long dead, and the pain no less for the years. Fingon wished, irrationally, impossibly, that his mother could be there to watch this, and then promptly stopped himself.  _She is safe; let her remain so, though the whole ocean and perhaps all the ages of the world may lie between us._  

None of his cousins were there either. Like so many, he did not even know for sure whether they lived. The only news that had come so far were some garbled reports from Dorthonion, of the burning of that country, its people fleeing, his cousins Aegnor and Angrod yet unaccounted for. Nargothrond too; he had heard conflicting reports, but he knew that Tol Sirion had fallen, and that Finrod had barely escaped with his life, which was already more hope than he had held out, making him wary even of that scrap of good news. 

There were also the rumours that Celegorm and Curufin had found safe haven in Nargothrond’s underground fastness with their displaced people. For this, at least, if it were true Fingon was grateful. Yet no news had he had at all of the whereabouts and safety of the other sons of Fëanor, and that made him more fearful than he could easily speak of. 

He scanned the faces of the crowd and of the nobles on the dias once more, knowing it was irrational, hopeless, yet hoping, still, to see a bright flash of familiar red hair. He did it almost without thinking now.

His cousin, of course, was not there. 

Fingon pressed his lips together in determination, pushed his dearest love to the back of his mind for a moment, as he regarded the plinth that now stood before him.

After all, he was here for a reason. 

Upon the plinth sat Fingolfin’s crown, the one that his father had handed to Fingon that day he had ridden away. The brilliant silver - set with heavy diamonds and sapphires - had still held the ghost of the warmth of Fingolfin’s hands that day, and Fingon had held it very tightly as he had watched his father ride north from the walls. The metal had cut into his fingers, Fingon remembered, as he had clung to the crown, watching the dust rising from his father’s horse’s hooves to cover him until he was only a glimmering speck in the hazy distance, and then could not be seen at all. 

The crown was left behind though, for Fingon. His father had believed in him, he knew. 

It did not make him feel any better. 

He reached out towards the crown on its plinth. Long ago, in Valinor, kings had been crowned by Manwë on the behalf of the One. Here across the sea though, a different tradition had been begun. Fingon had even been at the meeting when they decided that the kings of the Noldor would henceforth crown themselves, free from priests or retainers or higher authority, from elaborate speeches and oaths of fealty, at least until after the deed was done. Fingolfin had been the one to establish the tradition, and Fingon would follow it, as he had followed his father in all else. 

The crown was heavy in his hands, and hush fell as he raised it to his temples. The lack of additional ceremony was, of course, deliberate. Silently, as they all watched, he placed it atop his braided hair. Immediately, the heralds burst out in a new fanfare and the crowd into deafening cheers and applause. 

“Long live the high king of the Noldor, Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin of the glorious house of Finwë, lord of Hithlum and Dor-lómin, protector of Mithrim, friend of eagles, the new star in the night and bearer of hope in the bright dawn, the just and merciful, upholder of righteousness! Long may he reign!”

Fingon lifted his hands in blessing, and a hush fell once more, the cheering dying down. He drew himself up anew, feeling the crown’s weight upon his head. “My people” he said, projecting his voice to the whole room. “I know that we have suffered much, these past years of woe and war. My father has fallen in honourable battle with the Dark One, our hated enemy, and yet still we are not free. Many of you are afraid, lacking, stricken by grief. But let me swear something to you. I will not rest until this war is won, until each and every one of you is free to live in these lands in peace and prosperity. I will bear up my father’s legacy, and I will finish what he began. This I swear with my body and my heart and my spirit, until the deed is done or until death take me from this world.”

It was not a terribly binding oath, as such things went, Fingon knew. He would not swear one that was, not before his people or otherwise. Yet it seemed to have the desired effect; applause burst out once more, quieter this time, but accompanied by drumming upon the wooden floor, of many feet. 

He raised his hand for silence one more. Again, a hush fell, this time filled with anticipation, as the nobles on the dias stepped forward, forming a semi-circle about him, joining their hands and lifting them into the air. Whispers ran through the hall at large, swiftly stifled. All were waiting for one more thing, the oldest part of the ceremony, the most steeped in tradition. The king’s song; the action that would be the final seal, that had been carried on since Cuiviénen, though each ruler made their own song. 

He took a deep breath and began to sing, his voice rising alone in the hall.  
  
_“Through years of woe, of fear, of war,_  
_Our people have by valour bright,_  
_Held fast our lands, yet dreamed of more,_  
_Our faces turned towards the light._

 _Yet we have lost, and paid the price,_  
_In blood, in tears, a thousandfold._  
_Now comes our time to conquer, rise,_  
_Take back the joy we knew of old._  
  
_Fingolfin, bold and noble lord,_  
_Rode north to slay the tyrant foe,_  
_He dreamed of freedom by the sword,_  
_And in his footsteps we must go._

_I am yet of my father’s mind,_  
_I dare to dream we can prevail,_  
_Yet no one will be left behind,_  
_I swear to you, we will not fail._

_So forth, my people, swords in hand,_  
_And let us drive the night away,_  
_Set feuds aside, united stand,  
_ _And on until the break of day!”_

For a moment there was silence, before the hall erupted once more in cheers, the musicians and the heralds with their trumpets taking up the simple melody of his sing and spinning it into myriads of overlapping harmonies, resounding in bright polyphony in the vaulted hall. 

As he raised his hands once more, he let himself smile. 

 

“Thank you” Fingon told the little girl with the ribbons in her hair, kneeling down carefully in his robes so that he was at her eye level. “Thank you very much, my esteemed lady…”

“Nilimel” mumbled the girl, turning brilliantly pink and staring at her shoes. The child - the daughter of one of the lords of the court - had peered out from behind her father’s robes and offered Fingon a doll she had made from string and strips of torn, faded velvet. 

“Nilimel” said Fingon. “All my royal gratitude for this fair gift. She shall bring me luck in my wars, and whenever I see her I shall think of Nilimel of the house of Aranendon, and the joy she brought me the day of my coronation.”

He had not thought that Nilimel could blush even pinker, but she did then, spinning about on her toes and giggling until her father took her by the hand, tutting affectionately and berating her for her lack of politeness.

Fingon was about to reassure Aranendon that truly, the celebrations had begun and there was no need for strictly regal formality at this time, but he was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. 

He spun, quickly, seeing Elenniel standing there. Her eyes made him pause. He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” 

“A messenger from the east” said Elenniel, clasping her hands tightly before her. There was tension in her stance. “Lalwen’s talking to him now, in the entrance hall.”

Fingon’s heart went to his throat, the sound of the musicians fading around him to a dull buzz even as he took Elenniel’s arm, immediately starting towards the great doors, excusing himself from several people offering their congratulations. “Has something…”

“I don’t know” said Elenniel, her face twisting, and Fingon remembered her sister was in the east, in the service of Maedhros upon Himring Hill. “We waited. It was addressed to you, my king.”

Waving off the formality, he caught sight of Lalwen, directing the grateful messenger to the guest quarters. She turned to look at him as he approached, her face unreadable. 

A letter was in her hand, sealed with a smear of greasy tallow, not even candlewax. If this was truly from his cousin, Himring must be running woefully short of supplies, he thought nervously. He broke the seal and tore it open, relief flooding through him at the mere glimpse of Maedhros’ smudged, cramped handwriting, never the same since learning to use his left hand, yet the dearest sight Fingon could have wished for.

His smile turned to a frown though, as he read the words, eyes scanning quickly across the paper, flickering back to read it again. 

“News?” prompted Elenniel, hesitant. 

Fingon looked up at the two of them. Lalwen’s face was shrewd as she met his eye. “Finno…”

“Himring stands!” he said, before his face fell. “The Gap is lost at terrible cost, but Himring stands and Macalaurë and some of his strength of arms and even some civilians made it there. My cousins have fled with their people from Thargelion and Himlad - it seems that rumour at least was true - but many of those fleeing the burning made it to Himring, and Maitimo is holding the Marches, clinging on by threads day by day. But he has retaken the Pass of Aglon, and he lives yet, so there is still hope.” He smiled jubilantly, shaking his head a little, and said it again. “There is still hope!”

“It is still not safe to travel, nor to risk riding out from the mountains in strength of arms” said Lalwen, narrowing her eyes at him. “Finno, you have to promise me you won’t go - ”

“Aunt, give me a little credit at least” said Fingon, but his heart ached with the desire to leave, to ride away out of the great doors. The doors his father had ridden out of, and never returned. He frowned, collecting himself. “I am a king now, and here I must remain. I trust Maitimo, I would trust him with my life, and if anyone can hold the Marches, and from there what is left of the east, he can. The leaguer is not quite broken yet, or perhaps can be repaired.” He thought for a moment. “I will work to break the blockade by the spring” he decided, ideas suddenly coming clear in his mind. “Food and supplies for our people are priority, then aid to the east. That should be all the easier with Maitimo still holding on, though Dorthonion will be a problem. I wonder if it may be retaken?” He was pacing now, deep in thought. “And what of the men of Estolad, I wonder? He makes no mention of them, but ah, perhaps he doesn’t know himself. I will write to Findaráto in Nargothrond, and Círdan at the Havens. Perhaps we may find emergency aid in an alliance with Doriath? Now, surely, they must make one. They cannot hold back, now that the Dark Lord’s power is clear.” He frowned. “I must also ride to Dor-lómin as soon as may be, to speak with Galdor, for the men of the house of Hador are my people as much as the ones who were here today.”

Elenniel nodded. “You will have the northern Sindar with you always, as many as my influence can sway.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I will need every single one.”

“And you will have my loyalty always, of course” Lalwen said, pride and wonder in her voice. “You truly are your father’s son, my king.”

“You honour me, Aunt.” Fingon smiled. “Come” he said, offering them both his arms. “We must return to the hall, I think. There is much to discuss, and plans to be made.”

By a side door, they entered the hall where the celebrations were ending early, the allotted supplies of food and wine running short even as fears ran high. It only made him more adamant in bringing back the safety and security his people had once known. Yet still, the spark of hope that still remained in his heart glimmered now a little brighter than it had before. 

 _Yes_ , he thought.  _Yes, this day could have certainly gone a lot worse, and the future may yet be better still_. 


End file.
